


Sentry

by NotManTheLessButNatureMore



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26516368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotManTheLessButNatureMore/pseuds/NotManTheLessButNatureMore
Summary: A closed case comes back to haunt Strike and Robin.
Comments: 52
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god who can I employ to come up with summaries and titles 😂 WHY are they so hard?
> 
> Anyway, I have broken my own rule and begun posting a fic I haven’t finished writing. AHHH. BUT, surely this will motivate me to finish writing it? Surely this is a fail proof plan, yes? 😬
> 
> **Fic won’t contain any Troubled Blood spoilers, mostly because I haven’t finished reading it myself**

“Oh for god’s sake.”

Strike looked up at Robin with innocent eyes from where he sat on the office couch. 

“What?”

“You know bloody well what.” Robin shot back as she walked around the desk.

In her hands was a fairly bland looking mug, white with a black rim and the London Underground trundle on one side. 

“You making tea?” Strike asked, knowing if it wasn’t breakable Robin would probably have thrown the mug at him.

“Piss off.” A slight smile crept onto Robin’s face as she turned away.

A venture to a newly opened pub after last week’s curry night had somehow ended up with Nick, Ilsa, Strike and Robin entering into a pub quiz that hadn’t been their finest hour due to the combined bottles of beer and wine that had been consumed. The battle for third place had come down to one final question that asked which tube line connecting north and south London travelled the furthestin both directions. The moment ‘the Victoria Line’ passed Robin’s lips she knew she was wrong and watched as Nick and Strike simultaneously dropped their heads into their hands in despair. Ilsa just burst into laughter and congratulated the table next to them while Robin blushed as a transport enthusiast across the pub stared open mouthed. 

“And tell Nick to stop sending me links to tube maps disguised as news articles.” Robin added as she pulled the biscuit tin down from the press. 

She knew without turning that Strike would be smiling to himself as he read the evening’s Metro paper. Truthfully, although the jeering was starting to spread thin she did enjoy the camaraderie that existed between the four of them. 

“Where did you even get that?” Robin asked, a nod thrown towards the Northern Line mug. 

“Transport Museum.” Strike answered as he frowned at whatever had caught his attention in the paper.

“You went all the way to the Transport Museum just to make fun of me?”

“No, they have an online shop. Did the other two say they’d be late?” Strike finished with a look at his watch.

“Wardle is coming from the other side of town and Sam has to stop at a jewellers.”

“A jewellers? What’s he done, cheated on the missus?” 

“It’s her birthday soon. Some men can manage to buy thoughtful gifts.” Robin said, her eyes on the kettle that had begun to boil. Strike watched her sensing the comment was partly aimed at him.

“Jewellery isn’t thoughtful. It’s third on the list after flowers and chocolates.” He replied defensively.

“You would know.” Robin’s response was muttered quietly but Strike caught it and rolled his eyes, although he had to admit to himself that his gift buying skills did need some work.

“Anyway. Did you-”

“-finish up the invoice for Skinner? Yes.” Robin confirmed with a smile and threw tea bags into each of their mugs.

Strike pulled himself up out of the couch and walked over to the little kitchenette in search of one of the biscuits Robin was munching on. The evenings had begun to draw in and shadows darkened the corners of the office as the artificial street lamps outside began their duty. Strike flicked the lights on as Robin poured water into their mugs, pausing and glancing at Strike as the faint sound of footsteps on the stairs emerged. Robin grabbed two more mugs for Wardle and Sam while Strike leaned over the desk and woke the computer up from it’s sleep. Wardle and Sam were coming over to go through the results of the Skinner investigation now that it had come to a close. Wardle would be following it’s progress through the courts and Sam may have a chance of being called to give evidence but Strike and Robin could move on to the next big case on the agency’s waiting list. 

The stairwell was in almost total darkness now and Strike looked up as a shadow seemed to crawl across the frosted glass and morph into one large entity. He knew almost instantly that it wasn’t either of the men they were waiting on because Wardle and Sam wouldn’t pause outside and wait for an invitation. With a feeling of unease beginning to creep across his back Strike looked at Robin who seemed not to notice, her attention instead on opening up a new bag of sugar.

“It’s open.” Strike called and Robin looked up to see that Strike had positioned himself between her and the door.

Nobody entered and Robin stepped away from the tea in order to get a better look at what had caught Strike’s attention.

“It’s open.” Strike repeated, voice even, and a few seconds elapsed before something solid connected with the glass in three slow taps.

Strike slowly walked over to the door and turned once back to Robin with furrowed brows before continuing on. Robin’s hand, almost independently of thought, quickly grabbed the knife she had earlier used to butter bread.

Robin watched Strike wrench open the office door and time seemed to stand still. 

A bang sounded almost instantly, shattering the silence of the office, and Strike fell heavily to the floor, head snapping back and body following like a dead weight. 

Robin, who had flinched so hard that the mug in her hand had crashed to the floor, watched open-mouthed as the eyes behind the black balaclava looked slowly towards her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for a mention of Robin’s past rape. Nothing graphic or descriptive but thought I’d warn just in case**

_ “Nnn-“ The word no was stuck in Robin’s mouth, the tip of her tongue glued to the top of her mouth as the dark figure in the doorway levelled his gaze at her. _

_ The gun was lowered now and his head tilted slightly to one side as he stood casually watching her. The lines around his eyes deepened, like he was laughing to himself. Robin wasn’t even sure she was breathing anymore, no sound came from where Strike lay on the floor and even the noise of the busy street outside seemed to have dissolved.  _

_ She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the bright blue ones watching her, the balaclava he wore was so like the mask that had been worn by the man that raped her that she felt tears spring to her eyes. It was going to happen again, she knew it, he didn’t move an inch but all she could think was that it was going to happen again. _

_ He looked back down at Strike but Robin didn’t follow his gaze. She couldn’t look, couldn’t see the imagine of him that her mind was already conjuring.  _

_ She thought she saw the man’s arm twitch, the one holding the gun, and Robin clenched more tightly the knife in her hand. _

_ “No.” She said firmly, it was barely audible but her face was set and he looked towards her, again the lines around his eyes crinkled. _

_ The knife in her hand shook as she held it out. She could see Strike’s still legs in her periphery now, the office seemed suddenly larger, as if her vision had narrowed in on the masked man without her knowing and it was now correcting itself.  _

_ “No.” She repeated, louder this time and the sounds of the street outside reappeared. _

_ “You th-“ His words were cut off by the sound of the door downstairs banging open. Robin saw the way his eyes widened slightly but looked dead, as though there was no time for fun anymore and the professional in him had taken charge.  _

_ He turned and was gone in an instant and Robin’s legs suddenly felt like jelly. There were spots in her vision and she dragged in a breath as she realised her chest felt like concrete.  _

_ “STRIKE!” A shout came and the sound of footsteps racing up the stairs. _

_ “ROBIN?” It was Sam she realised, and heard the panic in his voice. _

_ He appeared in the doorway instantly and froze when he saw Robin still standing with the knife. Then his eyes moved to Strike, his large form spread out across the floor in front of the couch where he had fallen. _

_ “Fuck!” Sam shouted, making Robin jump and it seemed to free her from the fear that was taking hold. _

_ “Shit!” He exclaimed again from where he had dropped to his knees beside Strike.  _

_ Sam’s hand was on one side of Strike’s head when Robin looked down. From the angle of her view Strike could have been sleeping, his mouth open slightly and his eyes closed, but there was another shadow growing on the floor to darken the room further.  _

_ “Robin?” Sam was holding his mobile out to her and looked as if he’d already asked her something. There was blood on one side of his hand and it shone as it caught the light of the bulb above them.  _

_ “Robin?” _

“Robin?”

Robin smacked her wrist against the desk as she jerked awake. Wardle was waving a sandwich in front of her as Vanessa walked around to the other side of the table. She was slumped down in the chair, her neck complaining as she straightened up.

“Sorry, I-“

“It’s alright.” Vanessa’s warm voice countered with a smile as she placed a steaming mug of tea on the desk in front of Robin.

“Got you a sandwich.” Wardle explained as he threw it down beside the tea and then he was walking again towards the whiteboard that was scattered with names and locations and more question marks than they’d like. 

They were in one of the meeting rooms at Scotland Yard that Wardle had commandeered for the investigation. Files from Denmark Street littered the table and police mug shots and surveillance photos were spread wide beside Robin’s open laptop. Another closed file containing pictures of a different kind sat the end of the long desk and Robin suspected Vanessa had made sure to keep them hidden unless absolutely needed. Hours after the shooting Robin had said goodbye to Nick and Ilsa and rushed to Vanessa’s flat close to midnight where she had promptly had a panic attack as the reality of the day had set in. 

“What’s the story with his twins?” Wardle asked while staring at one particular picture.

“They’re in private school in Surrey.” Robin explained as she opened the overstuffed sandwich and saw onion fall out.

“Do you want to swap?” Vanessa asked, holding her wrap towards Robin while Wardle scribbled something on the whiteboard. 

“No, no, it’s just... no.” 

“Any older kids?” He asked and Vanessa reached for the list containing Skinner’s neighbours.

“No.” 

“Did he ever give the impression of using drugs?” Vanessa tapped the picture of Skinner. He had a receding hairline, dark eyebrows, full lips and looked like any of the men that would be seen toasting their bonus on a Friday afternoon inthe City of London.

“No. No, if he was involved with drugs he’d be smart enough not to try his own product.” Robin explained.

“The cliche of a banker with a cocaine habit would be helpful right now.” Wardle mused as he sat down and opened his own sandwich.

Robin felt the back pocket of her jeans vibrate just before her ringtone pierced the air. She rose quickly and moved automatically towards the window that had a view of the Thames, not quite sure why she felt the need to move away from Wardle and Vanessa. Ilsa’s name flashed across the screen and Robin quickly answered.

“Hey, is everything okay?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm I wonder what’s going on? *slightly evil/teasing laugh* Thaaaanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday!

_ “Strike?”  _

_ There was a long moment before his hearing returned when Strike felt like he was in another world. Nothing worked, not his eyes or ears or legs or arms. His limbs felt detached, his whole body a foreign entity and he could have been floating on a still lake with no one left in the world. A sound that could have been the movement of someone nearby echoed distantly, but it didn’t encroach on the chasm he seemed trapped in. _

_ Quietly he became aware of the little things, his breathing and something solid under him. The cold and his leg that lay too straight, putting pressure on his knee. His heart thumped away and something warm was pressed against his cheek. There was another sound, something dim but with substance, like he was listening from another room.  _

_ “Cormoran?” _

_ He was suddenly pulled from the abyss by one great almighty tug and everything attacked him at once. A searing pain shot through his head and he felt like it was on fire. His stomach spun along with what felt like the floor under him and sounds seemed to stutter and start. His eyes opened and instantly slammed shut against the light that was too bright and he wanted to crawl away from whoever loomed over him. They were too close and he realised it was them causing him pain, their hands holding his head in a vice. He wanted to reach out for help but couldn’t open his eyes and then there was a low moaning sound that kept time with his breath.  _

_ “Strike? Ye awake?”  _

“You awake? Corm?”

The white painted door creaked open slowly as Ilsa’s head appeared. It took a moment for Strike’s eyes, half open, to recognise it was her.

“Thought I’d bring breakfast before I head off.” She explained and had already made it to the bed before Strike noticed she had a tray of food in her hands. Ilsa placed it on the end of the bed and then moved to fluff pillows and move blankets while Strike slowly became somewhat vertical. The room tilted on its axis the way it did now whenever he changed position or moved his head more than an inch or two. Closing his eyes just caused him to feel like he had arrived home after a night of heavy drinking. 

“If Nick asks I made porridge.” Ilsa said with a warm smile and then settled the tray of food in front of him. As his blurry vision slowly focused Strike smelt the ingredients of a Full English before seeing it. Ilsa had made him one with all the trimmings and more sausages than Nick would deem acceptable.

“Thanks Ils.” Strike croaked and smiled tiredly.

“Now, I need your opinion.” Ilsa announced and then rose from her seat at the end of the bed before disappearing into the hall while Strike stabbed a piece of black pudding with his fork. 

As he took a deep breath around the food in his mouth in an attempt to stave off the nausea that lurked in the distance Ilsa reappeared with two shirts.

“If I was to come to you with a client who wasn’t usually the kind of client we took on but whose case would be  very high profile in court and therefore  very good PR for the firm, which top would make you agree?” She asked, shaking each shirt at him in turn. Strike only noticed now that her pyjama top was out of place with the pencil skirt she was wearing. 

“Which one would Nick pick?” Strike asked looking away from the swaying tops that seemed to cause the wall around Ilsa to wobble.

“He’d probably go with the blue.” She decided, examining it more closely.

“Go with the green then.” Strike replied around a mouthful of fried egg.

“Green it is.” Ilsa quickly whipped off her T-shirt and pulled on the green blouse before sitting back down on the bed. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Alright.”

Ilsa pinned him with a stare.

“What?”

“You say you’re alright but your head looks like Victor Frankenstein has had a go.” Ilsa said with narrowed eyes.

Strike ignored her and took pleasure in a mouthful of strong tea as Ilsa robbed a mushroom from his plate. Running in one thick line starting at his temple there was a three inch long stapled wound marking a jagged trench through his head. Thankfully numerous scans and examinations, ones that by the end had left Strike’s nerves frayed, had showed that the bullet missed everything vital. Strike put this down to the split second he had to react, rather than to any unprofessionalism on his attacker’s part. He was now left with a concussion, a wound to heal and all the pleasures that came with that. A small scattering of cuts lined the side of his head and a bruise had blossomed along his temple and out towards his cheekbone while a tender bump was present on the back of his head. It meant the only way he could sleep with minimal pain was on his right side, an implication that only added to his general feeling of grievance.

“I’ve called Robin and she should be round in an hour or two.”

“Why?”

“Because Nick and I have to work and you can’t see straight, you’ll chop a finger off making lunch.”

“Robin has her own work to do and-“

“Robin can work here if she needs to. Anyway, she volunteered.”

Ilsa almost chanced a smile, the kind that she usually gave him when playing matchmaker, but thought better of it. 

Not that he would admit it to Ilsa but the thought of seeing Robin had given him a sudden sense of comfort. He, who was in need of painkillers, a shower, a cigarette and a stiff drink (the latter of which he was forbidden from for now) was also in need, he realised, of something more.

As jumbled as his thoughts from that night were he remembered Robin’s face as she stood beside his hospital bed in the A&E cubicle, the sheet underneath his head soaked red and a thumping pain behind his eyes making conversation impossible. She hadn’t left him, that he knew, had stayed within sight while doctors and nurses gathered around and had fielded questions as best she could while he cycled between vomiting and trying not to fall out of a bed that felt like a swaying ship. His clearest memory was of lying flat on his back while the paramedics filled the hospital staff in on his condition and yearning for the hand that had taken his to be Robin’s.

“Oh.” Ilsa wrinkled her nose and brought Strike out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“Your hair. It smells like an ashtray, one that’s been violently murdered in a hospital car park.”

“Charming.”

“Well, it does.”

“Well, I can’t exactly hop in the shower and soak my head in water.“ Strike protested.

“I’ll have to spray you with Febreeze.”

* * *

Strike was still in bed when Ilsa left for work. He had graduated to sitting on the side of the bed but was looking defeatedly at his kit bag which was stuffed with supplies Nick had grabbed hastily from his flat. His thoughts were cloudy and his body tired, more tired than just the end of a long case would cause. If he moved too quickly everything in his vision doubled and dragged and bending down for his prosthetic caused the pressure in his head to build to a pulsing pain that made him flinch.

“Hiya!” Robin’s voice rang out from below and Strike paused in buttoning his jeans. 

“Hey.” He called back and had the feeling that she’d soon be upstairs looking for him. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, his beard was thicker and the blue splotches under his eyes were darker against his pale skin. He was still wearing the long sleeved top he’d slept in but he decided not to change.

He could hear Robin in the kitchen and then the rumbling of the kettle as he made his way slowly downstairs. His dodgy equilibrium made walking with his prosthetic more difficult and he was forced to keep a hand out towards whatever sturdy surface was near in order to balance.

“Oh, there you are.” Strike looked up to see Robin in the hallway.

“I was just bringing up some tea.” Robin raised the steaming mug as if to illustrate and Strike saw that she also had a plate of chocolate digestives.

“Cheers.” 

They moved to the kitchen and Strike chose a seat at the table rather than attempting to balance on a stool at the breakfast bar. He noticed Robin glancing at his head.

“Brain isn’t spilling out is it?” He joked but saw her face harden slightly and she looked down.

“You o-“

“Actually I was going to compliment your new hairstyle.” She said, a smile back on her face.

“What?” Strike looked behind her to examine his reflection in the tall glass cabinet but could only make out a vague outline of himself. 

“Very 90s.” Robin commented, hiding her smile behind her mug of tea.

Strike narrowed his eyes before looking hopefully at the pile of folders and evidence visible by Robin’s bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was alright. I kind of wanted to stay away from a full hospital scene because I feel like Strike always ends up in hospital in my fics, lol. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I have no medical degree but have had a mild concussion. However, I don’t really remember the details of it (lol, ironic) just one long headache and dizziness so I’ve just ramped up Strike’s symptoms and hoped for the best *shrugs*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s just not address my inability to write the Scottish accent. Understand it, yes. Write it, no.

At the same time that Wardle was taking chase after a man wearing a balaclava and Sam was darting up the stairs, knowing the difference between a hitman and a simple thief, three other shots had rang out across London. 

Edward Skinner, known for his extravagant cars and generosity to friends and colleagues was murdered as he stepped outside his front door to take a call, his wife busy inside making final preparations for a dinner party with three of her best friends.

Lucas Gamba was cooling down after hitting a 5k personal best in Hyde Park when a hooded figure stepped out from a bush and fired two shots killing him instantly. Gamba was an accountant that had shared a flat with Skinner in the early days of their careers when their combined income had stretched to afford a place in one of the cheaper ends of Kensington and Chelsea.

Jonathan Brompton, the older of the three and the richest, had only one obvious connection to Skinner; they both had children who attended the exclusive and expensive Charterhouse School in Surrey. Brompton was returning to London from a late meeting at the boarding school concerning the behaviour of his teenage son when a figure on a motorbike pulled up alongside him on a lonely road and swiftly dispatched him to the next life. He wasn’t found until early the next morning when simultaneously his wife became concerned and a passing pensioner investigated the Jaguar parked mysteriously on the side of the road.

To Wardle’s fury the man whose identity could have seen them miles ahead in the investigation had gotten a head start on him by shoving him back down the first few steps of the stairs leading to Strike and Robin’s office. Sam Barclay had been unaffected but had taken off up the stairs instead of giving chase and as irritated as Wardle was about that action he had forgiven him when he’d arrived at the hospital to take statements and seen how close Strike had come to being their fourth victim. 

Vanessa and Wardle had been brought up to speed by Robin and Sam, the latter taking over some of the workload because Strike was out of commission. The Skinner case had been wrapped up, so the dramatic development of three murders and one attempted murder had surprised everyone. Suddenly a case involving Skinner’s office being bugged and his assistant followed had become a lot more than a simply case of white collar blackmail. 

The morning after the shooting, when Nick had called to update her about Strike and Vanessa had called to ask for all their Skinner related files to be ready for collection, Robin’s head had become full of theories. It was a simple case of one firm becoming a little too competitive and taking one step too far in the quest to achieve the upper hand in the heart of the banking sector. So why had their client, his accountant friend and a man professionally unrelated to either been murdered? It was this question that Robin pondered while she read through some of Sam’s notes from the day he tailed Skinner’s assistant to lunch. 

Noticing the silence in the room Robin looked up to see Strike’s chin slowly lower to his chest. His cup of tea was half cold and abandoned on the kitchen table and from this angle she was given a clear view of his head wound. Nick had been there when Wardle had come to the hospital for the second time, when Strike was more coherent and able to give a statement, and it was then that Nick had warned that Strike was to have no part in the investigation. He needed to rest, physically and mentally, and as Robin looked down at the photographs in front of her partner she felt a pang of guilt at giving in so easily to his desire for action.

The doorbell made Strike jerk awake and Robin saw the wince and heard the hiss that resulted from him whipping his head up too quick. 

“The fuck is-“

“Coming!” Robin called.

“Alrigh’?” Sam asked when Robin opened the front door. He was carrying a tray of hot drinks and handed Robin a brown paper bag that smelt delicious.

“How’s the big man?” Sam asked as he walked down the hall towards Nick and Ilsa’s kitchen.

“Okay.” Robin answered after a beat of not quite knowing what to say. Strike seemed quiet and distracted and she knew he was in pain, but she also knew he wanted answers.

“Any news?” Strike asked Sam when he appeared in the kitchen.

“Though’ you were recoverin’?” He replied with an eye on the papers spread across the table as he placed a cup in front of Strike.

“I am.” Strike grunted.

“Heard coffee was bad for a concussion so I got ye a matcha tea.” Sam explained and Robin smiled at the look of disgust on Strike’s face.

“Only playin’ wit ye.” Sam’s grin widened as he pulled a chair out.

“These smell great Sam.” Robin said as she pulled an almond croissant out of the bag.

“There’s an ol’ man works in a bakery nearby, caught a kid tryna nick his bike one evenin’ on a case an’ ever since he’s been givin’ me free pastries.” 

“A right knight in shining armour.” Strike murmured as he took a sip of coffee.

Robin got three plates but Strike declined a pasty, causing a look to pass between Robin and Sam, and instead he attempted to clear the fog in his mind. There were aspects of the original Skinner case that escaped him and he was already forgetting the details of the three murders that Robin had brought him up to speed on. 

“Should see Brompton’s car. Must ‘ave spent my year’s wage just on havin’ his initials sewn into the seats.” Sam commented.

“Maybe it was a disgruntled socialist that killed him?” Robin joked as she watched Strike’s eyes roam the table.

“Make any socialist enemies lately boss?” Sam asked with a smirk but Cormoran took no notice, instead he had pulled a folder marked ‘Strike’ closer. It contained pictures of the office from the night of the attack as well as Robin, Sam and Strike’s statements, as supplied by Wardle. 

“Cormoran?”

There was a wide shot that showed everything as it should be except for the pool of blood on the floor by the couch, dragged slightly to one side by someone’s foot. The paramedics had left discarded wrappers in their wake and there was a mug broken on the floor. Strike suddenly wondered where his shirt had ended up, probably a bin, and he looked closer at the broken mug and had the nagging thought that he should remember something about it.

“Cormoran?”

Robin smiled and Sam was trying to make his concern look casual.

“Sorry. What did I miss?”

“Nothing, we were just-“ Robin was cut off by the sound of the front door opening.

“In here.” Strike called out and then rubbed a thumb across his left eyebrow.

Nick appeared in the kitchen with a bag on his back and a canvas bag of what looked to be food in his hand. He smiled at the trio and then faltered when he looked at what was spread across the table. His eyes landed on Robin who looked to Strike as a shade of guilt passed across her face.

“You mus’ be Nick, I’m-“ Sam began before Nick cut him off.

“Not discussing work with someone recovering from a head injury?” Nick said and Robin saw Sam’s smile falter.

“Nick...” Strike began with a sigh.

“You’re supposed to be resting.” Nick said firmly and Robin saw him shift into his scolding doctor persona.

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not fine.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel.” Strike shot back with an edge to his voice that made Sam look awkwardly towards the garden.

“What did you have for dinner last night?” Nick asked, seemingly from nowhere.

“What?” 

“Dinner last night, what did you have?” He pressed.

Strike opened his mouth to answer but faltered. A full English came to mind but he could remember Ilsa bringing it to him in bed and it was too bright to have been dinner time. His brows furrowed as he tried to sift through his foggy memories and he could see by Nick’s face that he thought he’d won the argument.

“Pasta.” Strike finally said.

“Close, lasagne. And you threw up half of it.” 

“Mate.” Sam said around a mouthful of chocolate brioche.

Nick dropped his bags on the countertop and turned back with his hands on his hips.

“I’m serious Oggy, if you don’t want to be confusing witnesses in six months time then you need to rest and recover properly.” 

“Nick is right.” Robin said and started gathering up papers and photographs.

“Yeah, I better head off. Wardle wants a chat.” Sam said as he rose.

“About what?” Strike asked.

“Nothin’ ye need to worry about boss.”

Sam quickly made his exit with an apologetic smile thrown towards Nick and Robin was packing up her bag as if to leave.

“Are you going?” Strike asked her.

“I need to check up on Ballerina. I’ll be back tonight though, Ilsa wants a catch up while you two watch the football.” She explained and then Nick walked her out. 

Strike looked at the empty tabletop and sighed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember this? No, me neither. I had to re-read (a cringe experience).

Robin returned to drink wine with Ilsa while Nick and Strike watched the football however the night was all but non-existent to Strike. Robin had returned around six and Ilsa had cooked, much to Nick’s trepidation, and then Strike woke up the next morning. He had fuzzy memories of a green pitch on a blurry TV screen, Robin asking if he wanted coke or orange juice and then Nick catching his elbow as he reached the top of the stairs.

It was three days now since Nick had warned Sam and Robin off involving him in the case and Strike’s annoyance at being house-bound was building. Sam was sending him football memes, most of which he didn’t understand, and the few times he’d checked the office email he’d noticed new clients being communicated with but scarcely anything being sent between Wardle and the office. It left him feeling out of the loop and frustrated and surplus to requirements. He had to stop himself from telling Nick to fuck off when he started talking about cholesterol while Strike was trying to have a quiet smoke.

His only saving grace was Robin who had begun to call each night after dinner. She still wouldn’t go into specifics about the case, just repeating the line that they were all making progress, but she did tell him about the man who had written to say that he thought Strike might be his dead cat reincarnated, and the middle-aged man whose suspicious dance lessons had turned out to be just him eating cake at a cafe in Hampstead every Tuesday. When she called he’d make his way upstairs and lie down in the room that should be a nursery and shut his eyes, just Robin’s voice that was so full of everything that could repair him drifting over from the phone on the pillow beside him.

* * *

“It’s a fucking painting.” Wardle announced as he appeared in the Herbert’s kitchen behind Robin.

Strike, dressed in the grey sweatpants and dark green hoodie that seemed to be his uniform now, was sipping tea while Robin went back to buttering some toast for herself. Ilsa had left for work nearly an hour ago and Nick, now on a late shift, was sleeping upstairs.

“What?” Robin and Strike asked at the same time.

“Brompton’s wife has already started going through his things-“ He began to explain before Robin interrupted.  
  
“Bit soon?”

“She’s not exactly heartbroken.” Wardle explained and then pulled his phone out to show them both an image.

“He had an office at the end of the garden, she hadn’t been inside in years but I’ve got a feeling she’s been looking for his will. Pulled a few boxes and a filing cabinet aside and found this.”

Robin took the phone from him and held it closer to Strike who had been squinting up at the detective.

“Is that-“ Strike began as he took the phone from Robin.

“A Turner? Yeah.” Wardle confirmed.

“What, a real one?” Robin leaned in closer to Strike, her hair almost catching in his beard.

“Real according to the Art and Antiques Unit. You should have seen the fuckers, it was like all their Christmases had come at once. Just looks like someone rubbed oil all over a canvas if you ask me.”

The painting looked as though someone had smeared it with coal and it took a few moments before the shapes began to arrange themselves into cliffs and waves. It was a seascape but one at the end of the world, as though the sun had been extinguished and the waves now swelled into almighty walls of water upon the moon’s command. It was unlike anything hanging in the Turner wing of the Tate Britain but also remarkably similar, like someone had taken one of his most famous works and changed the filter to greyscale.

“You prefer Constable then?” Strike asked with a smirk but Wardle just looked at Robin and then took his phone back.

“It’s got to be connected. Brompton is as straight as they come, not a dodgy tax return in sight or a parking fine to be found.”

“How does the painting connect to Skinner though? Or Gamba?” Robin asked.

“Skinner is a trustee of the Tate galleries. And we know him and Gamba were close. Maybe Brompton and Skinner got to know each other through parent events at that school in Surrey and eventually Brompton asks Skinner to take a look at something.”

“There’s a big difference between being a trustee of an art gallery and being able to spot a real Turner.” Strike countered.

“And where did Brompton get the painting from in the first place? And who else knew and wanted them dead for it? And where does Cormoran fit in?” Robin wondered, her forehead furrowed as she took a bite of toast and missed the small smile that tugged on Strike’s lips as he watched her.

“Well I didn’t say we’d solved the case did I?” Wardle surly replied as he shoved his phone back into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Did Brompton collect art?” Strike asked.

“There’s few bits hanging in the house but I couldn’t tell you if they’re worth anything. Art and Antiques is gonna take a look at everything today.”

Robin watched Strike as he stared off into the distance, not noticing when Ossie curled around the half open kitchen door and quickly padded over to sit under the table near Strike’s false foot, his eyes warily watching Wardle.

“Nurse Ratched not around then?” Wardle asked and received a glare from Robin and Strike.

“What? Barclay told me we’ve been warned off involving you.” He directed at Strike, who was massaging his forehead with his left hand.

“So why are you here then?” He countered, his voice sounding tired.

“I missed your sunny disposition.” Wardle responded and Strike snorted.

“And the real reason?” Robin asked as she sipped her tea.

“To tell you about the painting. And to ask if you’d remembered anything else.”

“No.” Strike responded instantly to the disappointment of Robin. She had a nagging feeling that there was some vague or tenuous connection to be made between Strike and the three dead men locked away her partner’s memory. But she’d also watched Strike forget her answer to _‘tea or coffee?_ ’ about five seconds after asking her that morning so didn’t hold out much hope.

“Alright, well, Vanessa and I have an appointment at Charterhouse School.”

“Don’t forget your cravat.” Strike muttered as Wardle turned to leave with a promise to email Robin all the info he had about the Turner painting.

“Well?” Robin asked when she heard the front door shut.

“Well?” Strike repeated before raising a hand to hover over the stitches that had become itchy.

“All three victims have a connection-“

“A tenuous one between Skinner and Brompton.”

“But a connection none the less… the only connection you have to any of them is through Skinner. If this was all about the painting, why involve you?” Robin asked as she came to sit beside him.

“Maybe whoever killed them thought the case we were investigating was about the painting?”

“Mm, this seems too organised, they’d have done their research.” Robin replied with a shake of her head, “And if that was the case why not try and kill me, or Sam. We worked on the Skinner case too.”

Strike shut his eyes against the image of crime scene photos showing Robin’s golden hair soaked in blood.

“I don’t think the man who shot me knew it was going to be me.”

Robin opened her mouth to reply and then shut it again. She saw an image of the gun firing, Strike’s head snapping back and his body following, and then the memory shuddered to a halt before rewinding back to the tapping of the gun on the frosted glass and Strike opening the door.

“It was too quick. He planned to shoot whoever opened the door, not specifically y-” She suddenly turned to Strike, “Hang on, do you remember it?”

“Not really. I… bits and pieces. But I remember… barely opening the door before this sudden, I don’t know, it’s-“ He stopped and would have left it at that, left it all unsaid, but Robin’s knee was touching his from where she sat beside him and he was reminded of how close they had grown and the things he could tell her and not others.

“I had a dream about it a few nights ago. I saw it happening but it’s like I was standing beside you watching it happen to another me. But then I’m dragged back into it and the fall feels like… well, being thrown across the desert by an IED.” Strike let out a sigh and shrugged, not sure what else to do. He felt Robin’s hand come to rest lightly on his back and then Ossie appeared between them having climbed up onto Robin’s lap.

“So what’s your theory then?” Robin asked the cat as it head-butted her hand in search of cuddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way - Brompton, Gamba, and Skinner are all Lord Byron related names which I thought was dorky cool but then forgot to mention it in the notes for the last chapter *shrugs*. 
> 
> Brompton = SUPPOSED TO BE BROUGHTON but autocorrect did me dirty (!!) and I didn't notice it until I'd already posted the chapter where he's first mentioned *long sigh* but Broughton should be named after John Cam Hobhouse (Byron's best mate) who later became 1st Baron Broughton.
> 
> Gamba = Pietro Gamba, the brother of Teresa Guiccioli (Byron's last great love), who was frankly a disaster of a man but followed B to Greece to fight for independence and then accompanied Byron's body back to England and was mucho upset at his mate/semi-brother in law's death. Also was a teddy bear of an Italian man so extra points for that. 
> 
> Skinner = Charles Skinner Matthews, another friend of Byron's from uni. He drowned in the Cam in Cambridge (circumstances disputed).
> 
> (Byron is my fave in case you don't follow me on tumblr and think this has taken a confused turn)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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